


This Helplessness Suits Us

by KiiKitsune



Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Angst, Relaxation, Schmoop, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiiKitsune/pseuds/KiiKitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days are just too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Helplessness Suits Us

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I keep writing pointless schmoop? I don't even like hurt/comfort fic.  
> Title from "St. Lawrence River" by David Usher.   
> Rated M just to be safe.

It had been raining for the past week; a steady downpour from the dark clouds that blotted out the sky. New York slowed for nothing though. The streets were still full of people, their black sea of umbrellas bobbing along with them. 

The parking lot behind Ray’s was mostly devoid of cars. The pavement was slick, glowing with the diner’s fluorescent yellow lighting. 

Steve groaned, pulling himself up and out of the shadow of a Ford. He blinked away the black spots, touching his head lightly. No concussion. That was good.

Looking down he winced at the mixture of mud and blood caking his pants and shirt. The rain had done nothing to clean him, only succeeding in soaking him through to the bone. He shivered, coughed, and told himself he had to get to his feet before he caught a cold.

He managed it, somehow. He’d never been so glad to live two blocks from the diner. 

“Awful late, isn’t i— aw, Steve, again?” Bucky was up and on him before he’d even managed to shut the door. The radio was on, some silly drama cranked up to be heard over the water pounding against the window. Bucky was already dressed for bed; pyjama top buttoned up against the cold. 

Steve brushed past Bucky, pushing the hair flopping limply over his face back up. Bucky followed, thumbing over a tender red patch on Steve’s cheekbone. Steve leaned away.

Expression hardening, Bucky touched more insistently, rubbing dirt off his forehead. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Steve batted his hand away, walking towards the bedroom for a change of clothes. Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re filthy.”

“I’ll get a towel.” 

Bucky sighed and walked away.

Steve stripped out of his sopping clothes, letting them fall to the floor with wet thwacks. He glared down at them, as if they were the source of his troubles. 

Reluctantly he gathered them up and dropped them in the hamper. They’d stain, but he wasn’t anywhere near being in the mood to deal with them.

Going to the bathroom for the towel he found Bucky running water for the tub. He hadn’t heard it over the rain and radio. 

“What’re you doing?” It wasn’t really a question. Steve knew what he was doing. The way he said it made it seem more like an accusation. 

Bucky stood up straight, “C’mon, get in.”

“I just want to go to bed,” Steve protested. He eyed the tub with something like longing though. 

“Am I going to have to drop you in Rogers? Because I will.” 

Steve hesitated while Bucky stared him down. 

“Fine.”

The water wasn’t exceedingly warm, but against Steve’s goose bumped and abraded skin it felt like liquid fire. He sank down quickly anyways, gritting his teeth against the sensation until he acclimatized. 

Bucky shut off the tap once the water level reached just above Steve’s navel.

“Stop pouting and scoot forward.”

“I’m not pouting.” Steve shimmied forwards anyways, pulling his knees up and crossing his arms over them. He rested his head on his forearms, turned to watch as Bucky undressed. The taller man really was quite beautiful; not perfection, maybe, but a damn sight better than Steve himself. Sometimes, Steve wondered if it made him a masochist to want to be around Bucky all the time. 

“You’re definitely pouting now,” Bucky murmured, slipping in behind Steve. The water sloshed and re-settled at Steve’s ribcage. Long legs framed Steve’s, soft dark hair tickling Steve’s thighs before the water smoothed it down. 

Steve tensed at the touch of a soapy cloth against his spine. 

In the bathroom the sound of the rain was quieted. The radio play ended, flowing into something slow and classical that drifted into the tiny space. Bucky hummed along, missing more notes than he hit. The hand he wasn’t using to scrub gently worked over the knotted muscles at the base of Steve’s neck. 

Steve buried his face in his arms, eyelids dropping shut and shoulders slumping. 

Bucky dipped the cloth into the water, rinsing the suds off Steve’s back. Through the rough material he could feel the bump of each vertebra. He leaned down and mouthed over one between Steve’s shoulder blades. There was a bruise blossoming a few inches to the left, so he kissed that too.

Sitting back he lathered up the cloth with their tiny block of soap, leaning against cold porcelain. He hooked his arms around Steve’s middle, urging him back against his chest. Steve relaxed into it. Bucky tucked Steve’s head under his chin, surveying the damage to Steve’s front. 

It wasn’t too bad; a couple of bruises on his torso, a few nicks on his knuckles, a scrape on his knee. Bucky cleaned them all as gently as he could, the soap bubbles turning a faint pink. 

Picking up Steve’s left hand and spreading his fingers Bucky rubbed the grit out from his nails, then moved on to the right. “You’ve gotta be more careful with these,” he muttered into Steve’s hair, “it’d be pretty hard to draw with ‘em broken.” 

Steve made a non-committal noise, squeezing Bucky’s thigh lightly. 

Bucky splayed a hand out over Steve’s lower stomach, beneath the water; large enough to span the distance between his hip bones. He let the weight of it sit there, steady, only moving with the slow rise and fall of Steve’s breathing. 

“Tired?”

“It’s been a long day.” It showed in the dark purple circles under his eyes. 

“Bed then. Come on, up we get.” Bucky hauled them out of the tub, popping the drain plug as he went. 

Their towels were thin and scratchy, so Steve toweled himself off quickly. His hair was still damp when he made his way back to the bedroom. Bucky followed close behind.

He stopped Steve at the dresser, re-directing him towards the bed with a soft push. “Skin’s warmer. Wait here.”

Bucky disappeared, the radio shutting off, and reappeared a moment later with the winter quilt they usually kept in the closet. It was an ugly thing; a cluttered mishmash of colours with no real design and mediocre craftsmanship. They’d gotten it the Christmas after they moved in, from the half-blind woman who lived down the hall with her daughter and grandson. Homely as it was, it was the warmest blanket they had and they’d both grown fond of it. 

Bucky laid it out over the covers and crawled under. Steve flipped back the opposite corner and did the same. Their bodies slotted together easily, legs tangling, arms wrapping tightly. Bucky pulled the blankets up around their necks, thumb stroking absently in the middle of Steve’s back. 

“Good night.”

“M’Night...” Steve mumbled, already drifting. 

Bucky couldn’t do the same. Sometimes he just wanted to smack Steve for his recklessness, counter-productivity be damned. He held Steve tighter instead. 

Steve wasn’t exactly broken, but Bucky wanted to fix him anyways. 

The rain looked tar black against the bedroom’s single windowpane. Bucky shut his eyes and forced himself to be lulled by the harsh, staccato beat.


End file.
